


Fenrir

by TururaJ



Category: Aldnoah.Zero (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Romance, vikings kinda
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:14:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22961503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TururaJ/pseuds/TururaJ
Summary: A wolf who leads his pack. A wolf who had destroyed his pack. A tale of two wolves searching for a precious tomorrow.
Relationships: Kaizuka Inaho/Slaine Troyard
Comments: 6
Kudos: 49





	Fenrir

**Author's Note:**

  * For [paperballoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperballoon/gifts).



> My dear Paper, Happy Birthday!  
> I'm sorry it's not finished yet, and I sincerely swear not to torture you with waiting for your next birthday! *smirks at Horses*  
> Also I'm pretty sure it's not historically accurate and I never intended it to be. I'll let this story be a simple tale.

“When the sun would be swallowed by the Skoll and the moon by his brother Hati, plunging the world into darkness, the great wolf Fenrir would ravage through all the planes of the Yggdrasil…” the old hag’s voice was low and quiet; she had raised her hands and drew a large circle in the air to hold children’s attention, and Slaine grinned when the little ones cried: some in awe and some in fear. Two girls found shelter behind their brothers’ backs; the boys, on the contrary, sat straighter and tried to look brave. Slaine remembered himself at that age with a bit of fondness. Despite all the hardships the days of his childhood seemed easy and light - nothing like the sleepless hours he lived now.

“My lord…” Hark’s voice was barely a whisper as he leant to his ear and called for his attention, afraid to disturb the evening gathering. Slaine was very adamant when it came to children of their tribe: no matter what dangers lurked on horizon children needed time for plays. They needed safety instead of the long journey Slaine had subjected them to. After three years of crossing the unknown lands and still with no place to settle most of children - and adults too - were very tired. Many became ill and perished. So the only thing Slaine could give them were these gatherings when elders would sit in front of the fires and tell the stories of Gods and men to the young ones. Anyone was welcome to join if they weren’t saddled with duties.

Slaine usually stayed at the back enjoying the warmth and peace. He could easily slip away unnoticed if something urgent came up. Like now. Frowning he adjusted the straps of his long fur cloak and followed Hark into the night. The wind outside was hellish; Slaine threw a glance to the wooden cabin he had just left and sent a silent thanks to the Gods. He had ordered to stop travelling right before the winter colds had struck so they had enough time to build homes. The forest was deep and wood was plenty. Still it was another winter when their bellies would rumble often; with no option to work on the land during the other seasons they had almost no grain.

Slaine nodded as Hark squeezed his shoulder; the man’s eyes had a soft glint betraying his kind nature. Hark was a good helper. Perhaps, the only one who understood him well and was ready to follow him into the glory halls of Valhalla if need arose. He was lucky Slaine hated wars with all of his being: hated seeing death and destruction, tears of humiliation, animals feeding on dead bodies, blood on his hands. Saaz, the previous chief and Slaine’s father, had done a lot of mistakes in his youth so he made sure to bring Slaine up in a different, human way, as he used to tell.

_‘Do not become a Viking, son, be a proud Northman.’_

He had not survived the Viking raid three years ago: they had fought fiercely to protect themselves and won in the end, but they had lost many, including Saaz. Slaine became the next chief; there were other pretenders but he had triumphed over them all in a fair fight. Though at times, when he felt tired like an old withered tree, he’d think that the responsibility had been too much and he never wanted it again. It was his choice to leave the familiar lands, the only choice that held a ray of hope. The raids were getting too often, the Vikings too cruel and greedy, and their village stood too close to the sea and the easy walkable land routes. It would have been a matter of time until all of their tribe fighters would’ve been gone, and there would be no one left to protect their families.

Few had fought against his decision; the situation was so dire even women were ready to abandon their treasured houses. They also had to leave the elderly and the sick who could not travel behind, and Slaine still mourned for them. Without means of protection, without the proper care he knew they wouldn’t survive for long. But they had bid their farewells to the tribe with their heads held proudly. They had trusted their children to him, and Slaine was determined to find the best place for their new home, far away from wars and heartless people.

Slaine smiled a small smile to Hark who had finally stirred him in the direction of the shed that stood at the edge of their hastily built village. Enough of reminiscing; it was time to focus on important things. “Tell me what happened.”

As they approached the shed, feet drowning in the deep snow, and Hark pulled the heavy fur curtains to the side - there was no time to make decent doors - Slaine felt a shiver running down his spine. The scent of blood was strong; he would not mistake it with any other smell. Was someone wounded? Were they attacked by a ferocious beast or bandits? He threw a sharp glance at Hark before entering the shed, but Hark was too calm so at least there should be no immediate danger.

“We found him in the snow. The wind had already destroyed most of tracks but it seems like he was alone.”

Slaine stepped over the pile of torn clothing and crouched near the lying body. It was a man, of Slaine’s age perhaps, and he was heavily wounded. Slaine’s people had rested him over the wooden floor, a bit away from the fire. He was divested of clothes, and an elderly healer was taking a look at his terrible wounds.

“His left eye is dead; everything else I can treat, but…” the healer sighed, looking at Slaine gravely, “He’s been out in the cold for too long; it is almost guaranteed the fever will finish him. So should I?”

Should she? Slaine reached out with his hand and gently turned the man’s head to the side to examine his neck. There were no collar marks or any marks on his arms so chances were he wasn’t a runaway slave. But then who was he? His complexion wasn’t that of a Northman: he was shorter then Slaine and raven-haired, his shoulders weren’t very broad and his body didn’t look trained as well as any of the north fighters’. If one was to forget about the loss of his eye - which didn’t look pleasant at all with all the blood smeared on his forehead and cheeks - his face looked peculiar as if he had roots in his blood from the folks who lived in distant southern lands, the existence of which Slaine always doubted. They were so far away it was hard to believe the rumors were true.

All in all it was safer to let the man die. If he was an unmarked yet slave there was a danger that someone would follow him and stumble upon Slaine’s tribe, and it could lead to the unnecessary fighting. He also could easily die from the fever, the healing herbs would be wasted for nothing, and their resources were already too scarce. More so if the man wasn’t a slave but was being persecuted for any kind of reason, it could get Slaine in trouble too. There was no fare reason to keep him alive.

Just when he opened his mouth to tell the elderly healer to give the man the herbs that would allow him peaceful death a thin hand had grabbed his wrist with sudden strength. Strength Slaine did not expect from a man who was very close to death. His hand was cold and shaking but he was clawing into Slaine’s skin like there was no tomorrow.

“Fenrir,” croaked the chapped lips, the lone red eye stared at Slaine through the fog of the beginning fever, and Slaine felt a painful shiver rolling over his body.

Sometimes, when no one would hear, Saaz would call him ‘Fenrir, little mighty Fenrir’, and Slaine would smile and jump onto his shoulders and raise his hands to the clear blue sky, happy and free of any earthly worries.

“Treat him,” he whispered, guilt birthing deep within him as Hark and the old woman stared at him in surprise, “Treat him. This one will live.”

***

The winter season was long and dull. Sometimes the weather raged for days forcing them to stay inside the wooden cabins despite the fear of being buried under the snow. The sun came out rarely, but whenever it did Slaine took his men and wandered into the blindingly white forest to search for any prey. Luck wasn’t on their side: to catch a small rabbit was a blessing but it could not nourish everyone. Usually Slaine ordered women to make the thin soup from it and feed it to the children.

On days when it was too cold to stay outside Slaine found himself tending to the one-eyed stranger. He could not ask the healer to watch him for days at a stretch. She had done her duty but made sure he knew she wasn’t pleased with his decision. Most of the time Slaine washed and changed the man’s bandages himself. He also fed him the medicine brews and gave him his own portions of food which he had to turn into porridge because the stranger was still in an agonizing fever and could barely eat or drink or communicate at all.

There were moments, closer to a dawn, when Slaine would open his eyes, feeling someone’s gaze on him, and would meet the hazy silent stare. The stranger, his fever abated after a long night of burning, looked at him. Slaine always met his stare open and proud; he had been generous in his decision to save him so there was no reason to cower. Not that he ever would in any case. Slaine’s eyes were full of honor and confidence; he’d move his hand to the man’s forehead and check his body temperature and then he’d offer his own flask with water and bring it to the other’s lips.

At last the stranger’s fever had passed but they hadn’t yet talked. The man was too weak, kept himself under the fur blankets and slept for hours. He accepted food and drinks without fight, wordlessly. It was hard for him to sit up but he did so under Slaine’s scrutinizing watch and had yet to utter any complains. Slaine liked his behavior: there were no demands, only acceptance of his situation. Slaine would probably need to start talking first, although there was no need to hurry. The spring was still away, and the tribe would need to recuperate from hunger before continuing their journey. He could easily decide what to do with him until then.

It was another day of vain hunting, and Slaine and his men were tired as they approached the settlement. The sun was almost down, painting the snow into a bloody color. Slaine bid his farewells to the others and headed to the familiar shed. He was sure that by now Hark, who was watching the tribe during his absence, had already brought him his meal. Truthfully Slaine would prefer to give his share to the children but he was a chief and he needed strength so he’d have to force food into his body again, and also to leave some for the stranger.

The loud shouts suddenly came from the inside, and he hurried to enter, his hand seconds away from drawing his sword. Even in the hard times his tribe was a united front; he didn’t believe for a second that someone would cause trouble while he was away. The stranger must be at fault- the thought appeared and fled as he stared at the sight that waited for him inside. The one-eyed man was pulled out of his blankets and kept, naked, against the floor as Vlad held his head in his giant palm, his knee pressed into the man’s lower back. Vlad was furious; he panted from anger and looked like he was ready to crush the man’s skull any moment. Hark, seeming desperate and no less enraged, held Vlad’s other hand and tried to move him off the stranger but his attempts were futile.

What surprised Slaine though was that the stranger kept calm and emotionless; his lone eye was addressed to the wood crackling in the fire. Did he not worry for his life at all? It was true he was still weak and healing, but he had gained a bit of strength so he should have been able to resist Vlad in some way. But he chose not to.

“What is going on here?” Slaine growled, making sure both Vlad and Hark knew he did not approve of any kind of violence that took place away from his eyes. There were laws after all. If two people could not solve their quarrel with words they were obliged to ask for his permission to solve the matter with a proper fight. Fights were watched by the whole tribe; those who won were considered rightful. The God Odin loved his strong children, and Odin took to Valhalla only those who died in a fair fight. As far as Slaine regarded the current situation - killing a weak and wounded man out of fury was not fair.

“Femi… is dead,” Vlad’s voice dropped to an unexpected sob, he shut his eyes for a long painful moment, and then the anger was back, and he screamed, “She died from hunger! While this one ate our food. He is not one of us! Let me… let me finish him, my lord.”

Slaine pursed his lips, for a second letting his heart beat achingly fast. The death of Femi, Vlad’s wife, was a blow but he had to be honest: she was ill since autumn and had never recovered fully. Hunger was only one of the reasons that had led her to her death. Their women were strong, undoubtedly, but if Gods had decided to take Femi away there was nothing they could do now.

“He eats half of my share,” Slaine answered harshly, and as Vlad stared at him, eyes wide, Slaine came to him and gripped his shoulder tightly. “Let him go. It is not time to fight. Let us mourn Femi and send her off properly. You should also stay with your children and show them the way.”

The reminder about the children seemed to work. Slowly, Vlad had let go of the stranger and stepped away, looking lost. He had four boys and two girls; other women would be happy to help him for now but he would need to take a new wife as soon as they found a place to settle. To care alone about such a large family was too difficult, and especially girls would need a lot of a woman’s attention; there was no way Vlad would be able to teach them how to sew or master the cooking. Deep down Slaine felt tired: their journey needed to end soon or next year he’d lose more people, and a riot could also take place.

“I will help him, my lord, and arrange the ceremony,” Hark bowed his head and gently led Vlad away. Slaine noticed his pointed gaze before Hark went out and ruffled his own hair with a huff. There was a full plate of food waiting for him in the corner, already turned into porridge so that the stranger could eat it as well. Hark was too caring; he’d be a great wife if only Gods had made him into a woman. While Slaine was divesting himself of his cloak and adding wood to the fire, the stranger collected himself and crawled quietly back to his sleeping place. Slaine watched him from the corner of his eyes: the man shook terribly but did not ask for help.

Within minutes they had settled back into their routine. Slaine sat near the man on the floor, ate half of his tasteless dinner and held the plate for the stranger. Before, he’d eat his portion without questions but today he did not take the plate, only stared at it indifferently. Slaine soon got tired of waiting: they would have to see Femi off before dawn, and that meant a lot of work before they could burn the sacred pyre in the cold weather. He did not have time to play around with the man.

“Do I finally see a protest?” Slaine smirked; his voice held a warning.

The stranger’s hand, resting over the fur, momentarily twitched. He opened his lips and at last looked Slaine in the eyes. His voice was hoarse, and he made long pauses while speaking but his words were firm and just. “No. It is not good to eat another’s share. I did not know your people starved until now.”

“So you’re going to starve yourself after I decided to let you live, gave you my food and blankets to sleep in, wasted healing brews on you, cleaned your wounds and shit?” Slaine wondered menacingly, his look exploring the man’s empty eye socket and wounds around it. It was not a nice sight; Slaine decided to ask women for the same eye-patch some of their husbands wore later. Losing an eye was bad, but not deathly; it happened often in fights with men and beasts or from unknown illnesses. One did not become less of a fighter because they were left with only one eye.

“While what you say is true, it only tells of your wrong decision. I am not of your tribe; I did not ask for help, I am free to choose my own end.” The stranger was stubborn, yet the look in his lone eye belied his words. He did not want to argue with Slaine; rather, he seemed like a man who didn’t know what to do with his life. Slaine saw the void haunting him perfectly; whenever someone of his people died he felt the burden of it too. The only difference was: he didn’t allow the grief to rule over him; he had too many responsibilities.

“If you want death find it in a good fight,” he answered coolly. While he could guess that something bad had happened to the man he wasn’t going to coo over him. “I am Slaine; the chief of this tribe. Before we continue talking, I first need to ask if there might be any danger following in your footsteps. We had found you very wounded, but there were no others.”

“Inaho, my name,” the man turned his head to the side, closed his eye. One of his hands reached upwards and touched the bandages over his empty eye-socket; his shoulders sagged. He then uttered the words in a very tired voice, “There will be no danger. I was alone.”

Slaine felt it too hard to believe. “If you lie…” he snarled a sharp warning.

“I wouldn’t,” Inaho was watching him again and the firmness in his tone was back. “You had shown kindness to me. I am in your debt.”

“Oh, now you’re in my debt?” Slaine felt a sudden amusement. He sat back, with one of his arms leaning against the floor, the other resting over his folded knee. “Didn’t I hear something about freedom and death from you a moment ago?”

Inaho stayed silent; his hand which was exploring the bandages lifted further and started smoothing his greasy hair. They needed a proper wash since long ago but the healer had forbidden Slaine to do it in fear of dirt getting to the wound. Inaho’s chest was no better: Slaine could easily count his ribs. The long fever had left him thin and weak; the wounds also had left deep scars. It would be hard for him to get on his feet once spring came.

“I apologize. I still cannot think clearly. My mind is hazy,” finally Inaho had said, and Slaine, after a moment of doubt, nodded, accepting his retreat.

“You should think about your fate while you heal. Spring is not that far,” Slaine jumped back to his feet after moving the plate with food close to Inaho. He had a lot of things he needed to do; Femi’s death would take toll on everyone so he’d better go and help Hark and Vlad. He was glad to see this time Inaho took the plate obediently. “If what you say is true and there is no danger for my people, you are free to stay with us. However, the fight to be considered one of us might not be what you can… win or even survive.”

Joining the tribe could only be done through a fair duel. One had to prove he had value - strength and wisdom - as there was no point in taking in a weak man. The tribe needed warriors, protectors, brave and unyielding fighters. Such duels took place early in the spring when the snow became mild and docile, and it was easy to wrestle and run around, half-naked and armed. The fiercest fighters would take on the three-round challenge, and very few challengers managed to come victorious out of two or three fights for the needed count of a win.

“Thank you. I will consider it.”

Slaine watched for a moment how Inaho ate: his thin, shaking fingers holding the plate, the way his empty stare regarded the food, the way he barely opened his mouth when he brought the plate to his lips, and a strange sense of worry settled deep down in his gut. Inaho was like a raven, old and tired, his beak useless to catch any prey, his wings too weak to fly, but still proudly carrying an image of wisdom and pride. His denial of food as soon as he knew about the starve spoke volumes about his kindness. And the way he talked to him without any fear or flattery was something Slaine didn’t experience often. Even his own people tended to treat him as a chief rather than an equal.

Slaine frowned and slipped out of the shed. It would not do to waste time on meaningless thoughts.


End file.
